The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster Page 10

  It was not unusual for there to be common ground between their thoughts. Culler and Danyer were almost always in sync. Ironically, the creature at the intersection of their deliberations was, unbeknownst to them, sitting three tables down.

  Elsbeth was occupied with the same article. She sat up with a start upon reading her description, causing her spectacles to fall into her oatmeal. Plucking them from the melted butter that pooled in the middle of the bowl, she cleaned the lenses with a dampened napkin. Despite the fact that they were somewhat the worse for wear, she placed them over the hook in her nose and finished the article.

  Annie had warned her to take care. And despite the warning, she’d walked right into a passel of trouble.

  Elsbeth signaled for her check and glanced around at a room filled with people, many of whom were enjoying the morning paper. Suddenly feeling like a “sitting duck,” though she wouldn’t be familiar with the term, Elsbeth let loose a shockingly colorful stream of expletives under her breath. Roughly translated, they fell into one of three categories—body parts, barnyard animals, and, in the most extreme cases, body parts of barnyard animals.

  Having exhausted her supply of non-liturgical rhetoric while fishing change from her purse, Elsbeth decided a disguise was in order. She reached into her bag for a scarf to cover her steel-gray hair and removed her spectacles before making her way through the resulting fog toward the front door. Bumping into a patron, she exclaimed, “I do beg your pardon!”

  Mr. Culler merely grunted his acknowledgment as he fished change from his pocket to settle the bill. He signaled to Danyer, and the two made for the lobby doors to hail a hansom cab for Westport.

  The day already promised to be unseasonably hot, and Mr. Culler stood in front of Abbott’s home, patting the shine from his face. He stuffed the soiled handkerchief in his breast pocket and turned to his associate. “I’ll do the talking, Mr. Danyer,” he said.

  They made the long walk up the drive, only to be stopped just shy of the porch by a duty officer who was escorting a journalist out the front door. “We have a crime scene here, sir,” the officer said as he crossed their path. “I’m going to have to ask you to move along.” He booted the journalist to the curb. “Pull one more stunt like that, Thaddeus, and you’ll be meeting tonight’s deadline from the hoosegow!”

  “I might be able to help you with that suspect,” Mr. Culler said, offering his card when the officer stepped back onto the porch. “The late Mr. Abbott was my business partner.”

  Caught off guard by the comment, the duty officer took a quick look at the card. “Wait here, sir,” he said.

  At length, the front door opened and a large, balding man sporting a mustache fit to sweep coal stepped out. “Ambrosius Culler?” he asked.

  Righting himself from the brick wall where he’d been leaning, Mr. Culler extended his hand.

  The man stuffed a notepad in his pocket before sizing Mr. Culler up. “I am Lieutenant Franklin. Come in and don’t touch anything.” He disappeared inside, leaving Mr. Culler and Danyer scrambling to follow him into the living room.

  “I understand you may have some information that relates to this case?”

  “I’m not certain,” said Mr. Culler, picking at a thread hanging from the divan. “Possibly.”

  Impatient and not amused by Mr. Culler’s coyness, Lieutenant Franklin simply turned to walk off. “Get back to me when you are,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

  Unperturbed, Mr. Culler didn’t let the officer take two steps before saying, “Mr. Abbott had a stalker fitting the description of the suspect in the paper.”

  The comment had an immediate and desirous effect.Lieutenant Franklin turned, scowling. He shoved his hands in his pockets, waiting for Mr. Culler to continue.

  “She was seen several times backstage at the Coates Opera House where he was performing. A very determined woman.”

  While Mr. Culler spoke with one eye to the lieutenant, the other scanned the room. An officer, taking measurements of the bloodstain surrounding Abbott’s body, knocked over a vase sitting at the base of a side table, leading to an unfortunate series of events.

  Called into a quick powwow, the officer failed to see a slip of paper dangling from the vase’s mouth. Mr. Culler, on the other hand, did.

  Minutes later, having completed his business with the police, Mr. Culler said his good-byes, collected Danyer, and made a hasty exit.

  Sergeant Kearney, half a dozen steps behind, stepped onto the porch to have a quick word with the duty officer, feeling uneasy. Something about Mr. Culler set his teeth on edge. Returning to the living room to find the man on his knees by the side table was disturbing. He was just too…satisfied, despite holding up a pocket watch he’d supposedly dropped.

  Kearney examined the table after Mr. Culler left and found nothing suspicious, but he remained ill at ease. Failing in the struggle to put words to his concern, Kearney shrugged and turned to speak to Lieutenant Franklin through the open door. “Arthur, there’s nothing more to be done until the medical examiner arrives. Let’s take a break and I’ll spot you a cup of coffee.”

  Lieutenant Franklin nodded. “Let the duty officer know,” he said and followed the sergeant out the front door, even as Messrs. Culler and Danyer turned the corner at the end of the block.

  “Did you find the journal?” asked Mr. Culler. He pulled the slip of paper from his pocket even as Mr. Danyer shook his head. It was from a piece of stationery embossed with the Broadway Hotel logo, and read:

  May 29 Mrs. Grundy: Your ticket is confirmed and waiting for you at will call. Concierge Desk

  Mr. Culler checked his timepiece. “Fancy a coffee at the Broadway, Mr. Danyer?”

  Having navigated the lobby without incident, El quickly packed, then sat on the bed with her satchel at her feet. She yanked her spectacles from her nose and began to clean them, starting with the stems and working her way to the lenses, a habit of hers when she was anxious. Realizing that she was just killing time, Elsbeth hobbled to the desk, where she found hotel stationery and a pencil in the drawer. She wrote the date in the upper left corner, then stared at the wall, her mind a blank. The ticking of the desk clock insinuated itself into her consciousness like a fly buzzing around her head that she couldn’t wave off.

  El scowled at the stationery, trying to focus, but the insistent palpitation left no room for words to emerge in her mind.Dropping the pencil in frustration, she wrestled the clock into the closet and slammed the door. She returned to the desk, but the unrelenting sound was only muted, making it all the more aggravating. As she considered taking a mallet to the clock, El realized she was simply loath to report her failure. Having diagnosed the problem, she mulishly began to write. And once started, she became so consumed by her task that she didn’t notice the ticking from the closet had begun to slow. Time apparently was running out.

  30th of May, 1895

  Dear Annie,

  I have much to report.

  Let me start by saying that I watched David Abbott’s final performance and am now certain that the door is the latchkey that links our worlds.

  However, there is sad news. I am sorry, but I have failed. He is dead.

  My plan was simple. I met with him in his dressing room, but I’m afraid my damn temper got the best of me. I was dismissed out of hand. Undeterred, I went to his home. There were more words before I managed to get through to him, but I was too late.

  He was killed while I strained to see through a keyhole in his closet door. I could hear very little, but what I did made it clear to me that he was killed for his remarkable red door. I’ve seen death before, but murder is another thing altogether. It is evil.

  I wish I could have prevented his demise, for your sake and for his. He seemed to me a good man who held himself accountable for his actions.

  There is something else I wish to report. Mr. Abbott has a son. He deposited the child through that queer door of his. I suspect he thought it to be the safest place while he
dealt with the intrusion.

  It seems that my failure is double. I came to save a life. Instead, I lost two. There is nothing I can do for Mr. Abbott, but I have a duty to that child. If he is alive, he may well be somewhere on your side of the door.

  It’s now your turn to intervene. Enclosed is Mr. Abbott’s diary. You may find it useful, although it is in disrepair. There are references to Florence, his wife, and a birth in June of 1894 at Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital in Kansas City. I scanned several entries regarding the door, but they are fragmented, resulting from the diary’s poor condition.

  There is one last thing. Your warning about a suspect, unfortunately, was in vain. I was seen leaving Mr. Abbott’s home and am now, apparently, the suspect mentioned in the article. I will make my way home cautiously.

  I have learned some things of use, suspect even more, and have never found myself so completely at a loss.

  Apologetically,

  El

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  Down the Rabbit Hole

  Elsbeth had just settled into her seat when the train bound for home lurched into motion.With a quick glance out the window at the receding platform, she rummaged through her satchel for some crackers, only to come across the bars of soap she had taken from the Broadway. She experienced a twinge of guilt— not for their acquisition, it would be a cold day in Kansas before Amos carried scented soap at the Hay and Feed— but because they reminded her that she hadn’t settled her bill. She was preparing to check out when she spied the man she’d bumped into at breakfast approach the counter and had ducked behind a potted plant, feeling foolish.

  Uncertain why, she’d determined he was trouble. He’d settled into a lengthy conversation with the receptionist, rudely ignoring the line waiting behind him. But when she heard him mention her name, she’d decided she could just as easily settle her bill by mail and had made herself scarce.

  The trip home was uneventful, and Elsbeth found herself at the picket fence surrounding Annie’s house several hours later. She placed the letter she’d written at the hotel inside the brass letter box and was turning for home when, remembering the diary, she retrieved it from her pocket and dropped it inside as well.

  She and Annie had stirred up a hornet’s nest together, that was certain, yet she was surprised by the realization that she had no regrets. Your garden needs pruning, she decided. Pulling a rose from its stem, she breathed in the aroma and smiled, causing the dark, downy hairs that had recently taken over her upper lip—a light dusting of charcoal—to tickle at the base of her nose.

  Snatching a hankie from her pocket, Elsbeth sneezed violently, a response that seemed to indicate her body was allergic to any expression remotely associated with happiness. She gave the letter box a pat and made her way home, imagining Annie sitting at her desk writing a letter when, in fact, she was sitting in one of the window seats in her living room.

  Annie was relaxing with her bare feet propped up on the cushion so she could look out the window onto the park while she pressed Christian for details about his pub crawl with Edmond the evening before. There was a rose from the mystery garden in her hand and a Cheshire grin on her face that came from hearing what he was saying and listening to what he was not.

  “Nope, no insight on whether we’ve crossed paths before,” Christian said, speaking with his usual broken tempo, something Annie hardly noticed any more. “He’s a little cagey about his past, but here’s something for you. I’m pretty sure he’s holding on to a secret—something painful. I don’t know what it is, though.” He plopped down on a chair, threw his leg over the armrest, and grabbed a magazine from the coffee table. Flipping through the pages, he added, “Apparently, I’m a complication.”

  Annie had been watching a Yorkie circle a Great Dane in the park. The Yorkie was running round and round as fast as its little paws could carry it. The Great Dane, by contrast, was standing still and merely turned its head back and forth while watching the Yorkie’s antics, radiating amusement in an almost human way.

  “A complication?” She held the flower to her nose and inhaled, unable to bottle up the smile that was beginning to play around her eyes. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Christian shrugged, unaware that she was baiting him. “Something he said.” He flipped through a few pages before dropping the magazine onto his lap. “I have a headache,” he said, massaging his temples.

  “It’s called a hangover, dear.” Lowering her feet to the ground, Annie added, “You’re long overdue. My first was with a bottle of cheap port at the tender age of fourteen. Trust me when I say you’re getting off lightly.” She shuddered at the memory. “Now, back to being a complication.”

  “We were just talking, you know. I began with my usual brilliant exposition on genetic m-markers and environmental triggers for stuttering.”

  “Riveting, I’m sure.”

  Christian looked up from under his brow, smirking.“Not nearly as riveting as when I told him how you slipped me a Xanax to see if what you’d read about the benefits of dopamine suppression for stuttering were true,” he said.

  “Did you also tell him about our experiment…”

  “With sentences comprised solely of cuss words? Yeah, I even gave him a demonstration.”

  Annie burst into laughter. “He must have loved that.”

  “Him and half the bar,” said Christian. “The conversation was moving along fine—I learned he was an orphan, and boy, did I stick my foot in my mouth with that one—but he suddenly got the queerest look on his face and started talking about needing to keep his life simple.”

  Christian went on to relay, as best he could, the part of the dinner conversation that had him confused, hoping that Annie could shed some light on the subject, but he stopped abruptly when he found her looking out the corner of her eyes at the dogs playing in the park and appearing terribly pleased with herself.

  “But he’s still planning to make those planter boxes for your entryway?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He tossed the magazine aside. “Am I missing something?” he asked suddenly.

  Annie broke into an ear-to-ear smile. “I’m just…” She turned to face him. “I’m happy for you, that’s all.”

  “Huh?”

  She wagged her hand playfully and stood. “I want to meet him,” she said before disappearing into the kitchen, dropping the rose in his lap on the way.

  “What are you doing?” he yelled after her.

  “Checking for mail!”

  Six blocks away, and oblivious to the fact that he was the immediate topic of conversation, Edmond was reshelving books in the science fiction and fantasy section of the library, where he worked part time. The task was mind-numbingly monotonous, so he made a game of it, using the library ladder. He stepped onto the bottom rung of the ladder and positioned it at the end of the shelf with a book in hand. Gauging the distance with a keen eye, he shoved the ladder down the length of the rail attached to the top of the shelf in an attempt to get it to rest in the exact spot where the book should be deposited.

  The objective of the game was to collect ten points. If the book’s slot rested between the poles of the ladder, Edmond collected a point. If not, he lost one. If the book’s slot was even with one of the poles, Edmond determined whether a point was added by flipping a coin. After all, there must be some element of chance in the game.

  Edmond knew his fantasy authors by the amount of force needed to get from the end of the shelf to their slots. A little push to get to Asimov—that one was almost a gimme. A bigger push to get to Tolkien.

  He had accumulated six points and decided his effort merited a five-minute break. Sitting on a stool, he sipped a diet soda as his thoughts drifted to the night before. A patchwork quilt of images floats through his head—bread crumbs, infectious laughter (following an expletive-laden demonstration), compassion, and charity. As the thoughts advanced into uncomfortable territory, Edmond leaped from the stool to wander restlessly through aisle a
fter aisle of books.

  Christian was a frustrating young man. There was no denying that, but those frustrating characteristics were precisely what made him so, well…frustrating! And charming. And aggravating! And sweet. And wrong. And maybe right. But definitely exhausting.

  Moments later, the drink was half finished and Edmond found himself on the third floor. He turned into an aisle and caught a glimpse of someone placing a book on the shelf at the far end before disappearing around the corner.

  “Ken? That you?” He hurried to the end of the row. “Would you mind handling my shift next Tues—” Edmond broke from his request when he realized he was speaking to thin air. He peered down the aisle, looking this way and that before drumming his fingers on the corner of the bookshelf.

  He looked up at the header hanging from the ceiling and discovered he was in the applied sciences section. Running his index finger along the ledge, he paused at the spine of a book titled Hidden Doors: Hidden Magic. Books on magic certainly didn’t belong in the science section of the library. Edmond pulled it from the shelf to look for the Dewey decimal code, but there wasn’t one. There was also no library card. And while the book was bound, it was not printed.

  He took a closer look. The pages were handwritten in black ink, leading him to wonder if the book might belong in the archives. The ink looked surprisingly fresh, though. He flipped through the pages to find strange symbols drawn in the margins in brownish ink. Perhaps it was more red than brown. Regardless, the color made him uneasy.

  Edmond scanned several pages, reading how the author had made a scientific study of rituals and ceremonies from various civilizations. The common thread involved purported journeys to the spirit world. Fascinated, he sat on the floor cross-legged and propped the book in his lap, the soda still in his hand.

  It is my belief that these civilizations developed an approach to science that is, in some ways, more advanced than our own. Our science is purely quantitative and stands alone. We separate it from philosophy and religion. In doing so, we are restricted by our senses. If we cannot see, feel, or touch something, it does not exist in our world and explanations are left to the Church. To coin a phrase, religion fills the void that science has no answer for. American Indian, Mayan, and Egyptian cultures, however, explored science in harmony with their culture’s philosophy and spirituality and, as a result, were freed from such constraints.